


touch

by Augustus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-08
Updated: 2002-08-08
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex and emptiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch

It has happened before. Harsh words followed by rough kisses and the sort of tension you can almost smell. This is how he likes it. He calls it power, calls it hate, but I know him better than that. Know myself better than he thinks. And his hands are always warm when they touch me. Nothing clinical in that. Never was.

He pretends it doesn't matter, but then, so do I. His touch can be soft at times, grazing heat over the mere beginnings of my skin. Intentionally maddening. Eyes downcast, eyes shut, eyes staring curiously into my own. It's all the same, really. In the end, there's an empty bed and that hole again. Here. Right here.

There are times when I hate him more than anything, when my flesh screams for release. Sweaty summer nights draped in sheets and each other, cold winter mornings spent glaring from afar. Always a struggle, always a locking of attitudes and emotions and touch-drunk bodies. His words are a challenge. His kisses are autumn's first ice. Rare and addictive.

When he says my name, he means it. Running touches over sense-numbed flesh, he takes me as his own and drives doubt throughout my everything. Lips tease, prompt, cower me with their irrelevance. And I am cold and shaken beneath the power of his lies. A scandal, clothed in nothingness. Grey eyes. Touch. Touch.

Simplicity threads our notions with spectral clarity. His hands, my skin, the slide of him above me. Heavy and irresistible and too addictive to brush aside. Words freeze, are discarded. All becomes fallacy. We are not us and he is not mine. Only in the moment. Only in the now. Only when he holds me impossibly close, thrusting within me, seeking and needing and never (except always) letting go.

Only when his nearness fills me: his scent, his anger, his denial. Me the antichrist, he the led astray. Reality twists and I am what he wishes me to be. His nothing, his everything, his charade. No emotion clouds his kisses, no words mar his lips with fragility. And in the (gaspingtouchingdiscardingfucking) night he entangles my will with silky looks and renders my liquidity. 

Touch. Here I own him, now I release him, driving pleading fingers through the roughness of his hair. Eyes clasping. We breathe. I know him better than this, better than the non-existent us and snide comments in the halls. Better than the sex dance, than the structured enigma. Within if not without. Nothing to do but to touch and by touched. Waiting.

I lay claim to this flesh. To him. To the nothing.

**8th August 2002**


End file.
